


Twist In My Sobriety

by mmmelmoth



Series: song-steered Parksborn stories [1]
Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Arguing, Emotional Shit, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Harry Osborn is gay af, Heavy Angst, Lies, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Peter is such a nerd, Queer Character, Reunions, Suicide Attempt, Terminal Illnesses, attempted suicide, double identity, give me feedback guys, harry is a hipster, low-key bisexual Peter Parker, this was ten pages in microsoft word so it's a quick read I guess?, trigger warning, tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2018-11-09 12:20:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11104452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmmelmoth/pseuds/mmmelmoth
Summary: some events of The Amazing Spider-Man 2 rewrittenHere's what happens after Peter is reunited with his childhood best friend who then starts asking for his blood.





	1. sober or not

 

* * *

 

"Sorry, I don't wanna intrude. I know it's been a long time. I kind of know exactly what you're going through right now. And you were so there for me when my parents... Well, that's why I'm here for you." Peter offered a smile, which his former best friend deflected with a polite nod: "Thank you."  
The awkward silence between them grew heavier. "It's good to see you, man. It's good to see you. I'm sorry about your dad." Knowing nothing else to say, Peter turned to leave, feeling disheveled. When he was convinced this was it, it was a dumb idea coming here in the first place, they had become way too different people anyways, Harry raised his voice. "You got your braces off."   
Surprised and uncertain of what to answer, Peter looked back at Harry who stood worlds away on top of the stairs, looking the proper businessman. This facade fell as Harry added: "Now there's nothing to distract from your unibrow."    
Both of the boys began to laugh with relief.   
"There he is. There he is!" Peter exclaimed, walking towards the stairs, "You still blow-dry your hair every morning?"   
"Well, you know, one of my manservants holds the hair dryer. But I work the comb, okay? So at least I'm not completely helpless." Harry grimaced.   
"You're stupid." What Peter meant though was, I've missed you, and both of the boys knew it.   
They met halfway between stairwell and front door to hug, all initial awkwardness gone with the wind. 

The two of them met again a mere week later on the shore of the river Hudson. Peter had his camera strapped around his torso while Harry had shown up wearing designer sunglasses and an outfit that was probably worth more than the tuition fee of colleges Peter was looking at. They slipped into conversation easily, walking on the tiny pebbles and throwing some into the water from time to time. "I never thought I'd see you again, if I'm honest. I shut everyone out once my dad sent me off, I guess that included you." Harry looked at his shoes as he felt Peter's eyes digging into his skin. "So you got my letters?"

Harry shrugged away the questions. "Yeah. They stopped in middle school, though." "I thought I had a wrong address. I thought you didn't want anything to do with me any more, maybe you'd found better friends." Silence folded its arms around them for a moment, then Harry looked up, his mouth a straight line: "I never did. I didn't even try." The weight of unspoken words lingered between them, then Peter changed the subject.

"You came here all dressed up, then strike a pose." Nimbly, he removed his camera's visual cover and raised it to his eyes. "I didn't come here dressed up!" Harry protested, "This is what I casually wear!" "Well, then you're a casually swanky hipster." Peter retorted and when Harry turned away to laugh, he snapped a picture. "Oh you didn't." With pretended indignation, he hurried next to him to look at the outcome of it. "That looks hideous!" Harry swatted at the camera, but Peter pulled it to safety. "What's it with your reflexes, man?" "It's a nice snapshot!" He defended the photograph and laughed despite the sweat creeping up his collar. This was the second time today that Harry had taken note of his amplified senses.

"I look like a goblin! Do another one, c'mon." All serious now, Harry pushed up his round glasses and swept his hair into place. "Right. I think in front of the river would look nice, the reflection on your glasses will be stunning. A little to the left. Perfect." Without questioning, Harry did as Peter said as he was obviously in his element. When he had taken the picture, Harry turned and asked: "When did you start doing this?" Peter snapped another picture when Harry didn't expect it, then lowered the camera, grinning at his friend's sore expression. "Soon after you'd gone away. With you no longer there to boss me around and tease me, I needed a new hobby." "Oh, come on. There was more to our friendship than teasing." They walked next to each other again. "Yeah. I remember Aunt May complaining you spent too much time at our house because we hung out literally every day." "You taught me to ride a skateboard and I ripped my Sunday's pants." Harry remembered, then added silently: "I was at yours so often because I didn't like being home." Biting his lip, Peter gave him a gentle pat on the back. "I'm sorry, man. I recall you didn't get along with your dad that well."

Harry's eyes wandered off along the river's shore. "In his last moments, my father told me I'd become a stranger. That I was throwing my potential away. That I'll never understand why my childhood had to be sacrificed for something greater." He spat out the last words, his expression bitter. Then he pushed an "I don't wanna talk about it" out right behind it, denying Peter the opportunity to say something. "Now I'm the C.E.O. of a freaking enormous corporation, and that isn't even the worst part. The worst part is how they look at me like I'm a bug, so inferior. They whisper behind my back and think I don't know, they don't think me capable of anything, just because I was born into the position." His teeth clenched, and Peter nudged his arm. "You don't have many options but to prove them wrong." "If only it were that easy." They stared into the distance, then Harry asked: "You don't still have that stupid skateboard, do you?" 

 

* * *

 

 

In the night from Sunday to Monday, Peter’s phone lit up with a text from Harry that simply said: **_can u come over_. **

Confused, Peter toppled out of bed and threw a glance at the clock – 2 AM. He should make use of the few hours’ sleep that were left to him as the weekend had been eventful again, not for him as Peter but for him as Spider-Man. His muscles were still sore. Still, the text startled him. What reason had Harry to be up at such a time of day, and why would he refrain from the ridiculously eloquent way of texting he chose every other time?

**_What’s wrong?_** He texted back in a hurry while rubbing his tired face. A bare second later, the reply came in. But all it said was _please_. Even quicker than usual, he had slipped into his pants, hoodie, sneakers and disappeared through the window. He made it to Harry’s in less than a minute.

Only when he’d rang the bell, his eyes widened with the realization that he would need a brilliant excuse for how on earth he’d managed to come so quickly.

As soon as the door opened, it became obvious that no explanation would be needed. In front of him stood Harry in silk pyjamas, his hair disheveled, an empty bottle of scotch loosely in his hand. “And here I was thinking you wouldn’t show up.” Looking at the bottle’s state, his words were surprisingly well understandable.

“Man, what happened to you?” Peter caught Harry as he stumbled and prevented the bottle from shattering on the ground in a swift motion at the same time. He closed the door behind them and led his primary school best friend into his own living room, where he sat him down at the bottom of the canapé. “I’ve been drinking.” Harry stated, as if his strong smell of alcohol wasn’t speaking for itself. “You don’t say.” “I don’t remember the way to my bedroom.” “Maybe it’s better if you just sleep on the couch.” “ _Nonono_ , I don’t wanna sleep. I need my phone’s powerbank. And possibly another drink.” Harry slouched onto Peter’s shoulder and didn’t even seem to notice.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink. Why do you need a powerbank?”

Almost hitting Peter in the face, Harry wildly gesticulated around them: “Can’t you hear it? I’m all out of music. My phone’s battery died.” Peter tried sitting him upright, but Harry had dozed off. “You are going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow, my friend.” “No, I won’t. I do this all the time. Usually… my phone doesn’t run out of battery.”

“Is this why you asked me to come?” But instead of an answer, Peter only received a shower of incomprehensible murmuring.

“Fine. I’ll get your powerbank. Do you know where it is?” “Hm. Maybe on my bedside drawer. Not promising anything.” When he had nestled him into a stable sitting position, Peter stood up. Before he could leave, Harry grabbed his ankle. “Pete?” “Yeah, Harry.” “Thanks.” As he watched the boy king on the ground smile a sad, drunken smile, he realized that maybe there was a lot more wrong than he’d first assumed.

 

The powerbank was not on the bedside drawer, nor inside it. After minutes of searching, Peter retrieved it from black briefcase that lay next to Harry’s neatly folded clothes. When he pulled it out, an article from a med magazine entitled _Retro Viral Hypoplasia_ slipped out as well. He did his best to slip it back inside, then carefully took it out again, his curiosity snapped awake. In the dim light the room provided, he quickly scanned the page describing the fatal illness and put it back when he heard a crash from the level below.

He collected the powerbank and hurried down the stairs to find Harry sitting next to the cupboard where diverse other bottles of alcohol seemed to be stored away.

A shattered glass lay next to him. “Hi, Peter.” Harry grinned sheepishly, the numb expression not leaving his eyes. “Stay there, you’re going to hurt yourself.” Peter was sweeping away shards as quickly as possible, when Harry touched his arm. “Didyou find the powerbank?” He looked at him intensely, so Peter nodded. “Can you put on my iTunes playlist?” When Peter hesitated, Harry added: “I won’t move, I promise.”

Uncertainly, Peter went over to the stereo where Harry’s phone lay connected. He started charging it and did as he was told with the music as soon as it had powered on.

“Is everything alright here?” A female voice interrupted while a steady rhythm boomed from the speakers. Peter scrambled to turn the volume down.

“Yes, yes. He’s taking care of me.” Harry answered and gave a happy wave to the young woman standing in the doorway. “Is he now?” Her voice was worried. Peter stood frozen, then went to Harry’s side. “I am. Thank you for your concern.” It sounded almost like an apology. “We’re okay here.” Harry dismissed her.

“You didn’t tell me you had lady guests.” Peter joked, carefully removing more glass shards. “That’s Felicia.” Harry nodded, deciding this was sufficed as an explanation. Peter’s voice was grave and serious when he spoke again. “Felicia seems worried. So am I. You can’t treat yourself this way.” “It won’t make a difference.” Harry laughed desperately. “Harry, I know life hasn’t been too gentle with you, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you earlier, but I’m here now. We can work this out.” “This isn’t about life.” Harry emphasized the last word so hard he hit his head into the drawer behind him. Peter’s hand rushed to his neck to stabilize it. Their eyes met on one level, and Harry blurted out: “I’m scared of dying.” Before Peter could ask _what?_ , Harry was leaning in, clumsily attempting a kiss. Peter’s hands shot from Harry's neck to his sternum and gently stopped him from getting too close, but Harry was pushing himself up on the glass shards and pressing himself against Peter’s barrier.

“Harry, you’ll regret this when you’re sober.” “ _Will I?_ ” Harry mumbled as Peter helped him stand, then walk, then sit on the canapé.

“Look at what you’ve done.” Softly, Peter picked up his friend’s hands that were bloody from the splinters. He cleaned out the glass while Harry numbly stared at him. “Are you mad I wanted to kiss you?” “You’re drunk, Harry.” “Exactly. It’s just fooling around, there’d be nothing to it. People do it all the time.” He leaned in again, trying to place his lips on the curve of Peter’s neck. This time, he was pushed away harder, even though Peter still held his wrists cautiously.

“You’re not in your right mind. I’m with Gwen.” “You said it was complicated.” “I don’t want it to be complicated between us too. What about Felicia?” “She works for me. That’s all.” “She’s pretty.” “I’m not into girls.” Harry was possibly the only one who could still lead such a quick conversation with an entire bottle of scotch in his bloodstream. Slowly, Peter placed Harry’s hands on the canapé, the palms towards the ceiling so they wouldn’t bleed onto anything. “That makes sense.”

“There’s nothing to it, Pete. I just gotta take my mind off things. Everything will stay the same. I told you I don't do _complicated_.”

Uneasily, Peter shifted: “You should sober up, and I should get back. May is going to lose it if she finds my bed empty.” They stared at each other. At last, Harry nodded resentfully, biting down on his own lip. Peter tried thinking of anything he could say to apologize and failed hilariously. All around them, the speakers echoed eerily the melancholic sounds of a refrain resounding for the fourth time: _Look my eyes are just holograms / Look your love has drawn red from my hands / From my hands you know you’ll never be / More than twist in my sobriety / More than twist in my sobriety_.

“Can we please stay friends?” Harry asked, looking miserably up at Peter. “Of course, man. Just… just try to lay low on the liquor. We’ll talk about this, okay?” “We don’t have to.” Peter stood up from the canapé and unfolded a blanket that lay at its end.

“Does the music help you fall asleep?” Again, all he got was mumbling. So he wrapped the blanket around Harry, careful to not hurt his hands. “I’ll see you tomorrow, be sure to clean your hands. I can ask Felicia to step by?” Peter ran his hands through his hair, “I’m- I’m sorry.” With that, he walked to the door, not wanting to look like he was fleeing when that was all he was doing. Before he closed it behind him, Harry’s faded voice whispered: “I’m sorry.”

Then the door fell shut and Peter stood exposed to another cold night in New York City.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter avoided thinking about the previous night, whilst for Harry it was all he thought about. Of course he’d had to blow it with the one person trying to be there for him. Of course Peter wouldn’t feel the same; of course he had to be straight. _Why were all the good ones straight?_ Over and over, he found himself staring at his name on his phone display, refusing to click the call button. He couldn’t be the pathetic one crawling after him right now. At the same time, he felt himself growing weaker as the sickness steadily took control over his body. It shouldn’t have manifested itself so quickly. But now, it was obvious that he had very little time left. Shouldn’t he be trying to fix things with Peter just because of this, so he could at least have a friend in the end if he couldn’t have anything more? Truth was, he didn’t want a friend. He just wanted to _live_.

And every day, he drank. It had become a habit, maybe a coping mechanism. Felicia didn’t ask questions but since Peter had mentioned it, Harry could spot the worry in her fugitive glances. She said nothing, and he pretended she never saw when he smashed another mirror in a drunken rage, or when the tears came pouring out of his eyes the few times he was sober. One week after watching his misery grow, she walked in on him as he was bowed over his liquor cabinet. “Sir.” She cleared her throat, and just moved on when he didn’t turn around: “Sir, I’m aware I have no business meddling with your personal affairs.”

“Well, then you should leave.” He spat. Unapologetically, Felicia raised her voice: “Sir, I think it’s about time you give Mister Parker a call.” It didn’t even surprise him she’d found out who’d been with him that evening. “I don’t see how that would change anything, really.” Wearing an insincere smile, he spun around and was forced to grab a hold of the cabinet not to loose his balance.

“Allow me to state the obvious, sir, your current condition is despicable.” “How dare you?” When he began to shout, she simply ignored it: “And though it is beyond us at the moment to make you better physically, your emotional state is self-imposed and can be taken care of. Mister Parker seemed caring, and if you lock yourself in much longer, you’ll be going insane.” She straightened her back and gave him a cold stare. “It is my duty to tell you so honestly, sir. If you believe these are grounds to fire me on, be my guest, but I won’t stand and watch this tragedy any longer.”

Harry struggled with words. He eyed her warily until he managed to choke out: “Am I not already?” “Excuse me?” “Going insane.” Felicia’s eyes softened and she held out her hand, a phone in it. “I have Mister Parker on short dial right here. If you ask me to, I’ll make the call for you. And – another thing.” “Yes?” Harry’s eyes shot upwards for a second with a hint of what could have been considered hope.

“Peter Parker may be the one to improve your physical condition, too. Are you aware he was the one to take the newspaper pictures of The Amazing Spiderman? If he could establish a contact between the two of you, Spiderman’s blood could save your life through its regenerative abilities. Are you following me?” Quickly, Harry blinked a couple of times. “I believe so.” “Should I make the call then, sir?” But he shook his head and attempted to stand on his own. “No, Felicia. I’ll do it.”

Mere ten minutes later, Peter sat in the armchair opposed to the canapé. Emotions fought a very public battle on his face, and Harry was too drunk to notice.

 


	2. twisted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which both Peter and Harry, and Harry and Spider-Man meet, and yet both turn out to be disappointments.  
> Spoilers for The Amazing Spider-Man 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the fandom still alive? I finally finished this story and I hope you all enjoy it, let me know!

“You alright?” Peter mumbled into the phone, woken up again by it ringing.

“Yeah, not really, Pete. I’m dying.” His suspicions after finding the strange file about the fatal illness were confirmed at last by Harry at the other end of the line. Out of politeness, Peter inquired in pretended shock and came over in a rush to watch a video of his father and Doctor Connors telling him all the things he already knew about spiders, their healing and how it could be transferred to a human subject. The act of surprise he had to put on repelled him, and at the same time a sullen feeling spread out from his stomach to his hairline. It took over completely as Harry slammed the newspaper on the table, revealing in mad enthusiasm that Spider-Man was a successful human trial for this planned experiment.

His hair fallen into his face, he looked up at Peter with his blue eyes shining above the dark shadows of too many drunken nights. “I need to find him. I need his blood.” He said with an actual smile, an actual glimmer of hope – the one thing Peter had been missing to see in his friend. “You need Spider-Man’s blood…?” Peter sat down, struggling to keep his emotions off his face – because what a cruel joke of fate. “To save my life.” Harry explained again slightly indignant this time, smile falling when he didn’t find his enthusiasm shared by the one person he confided in. _Why wouldn’t Peter want him to be healed?_

At the other side of the table, Peter inhaled, not breaking eye contact as the last thing he wanted for Harry was to think he was hiding something, or just randomly disapproving of his idea. “It may not, Harry. It may not be that simple. You saw what happened to Curt Connors, right?” Always so careful. Like Harry was an expensive vase that shouldn’t be broken, like he was a dangerous animal that could jump any second. This strategy worked only for so long. “Connors was weak. This is me, Peter.” Anything he could’ve answered now would’ve been wrong. And it was. The soft waterfall of propositions and compromises tumbling out of Peter’s mouth reached the contrary of his intention. In a bitterly calm and threatening voice, Harry spat: “Well maybe then you could just sensitively tell me, where he is and I will ask him myself.” This was the one thing Peter had been afraid to hear all along. Hell, he’d even seen it coming. Still this caught him off guard, he barely managed a gentle “What?”

Pointing to the newspaper, Harry accused: “You took his picture. You know him.”

Hating himself, Peter went on about the length of his lens and promised in the same soft voice that he did not.

“ _I don’t want to end up like my father._ ” Losing the bit of composure he had left, Harry teared up but before Peter could see, he’d pressed himself against him in a hug. He wasn’t pushed away, this time – but he didn’t receive a hug back either. Peter felt like puking. Not because of the closeness of his friend, he couldn’t think about that, but because of the words forced out by guilt: “I’m going to do my best to find him.”

This wasn’t what he’d come here to say. This wasn’t what Harry had called him here to hear. A disappointment for both of them.

Before the situation could grow worse, Peter squeezed himself out of the door, leaving Harry standing there in disbelief. Another rejection. He’d laid himself bare, exposed his hopes and vulnerabilities, and all he’d gotten was a postponement, a _maybe_. This wasn’t good enough. As soon as he was sure Peter was out of hearing range, he convulsed in a yell of anger. Harry wished he’d never broken the ice between him and Pete the day he came to say his condolences.

 

* * *

 

 

The honest look of joy on Harry’s face upon seeing Spider-Man in his armchair disappeared soon enough due to the words “I can’t give you my blood.” Peter kept his voice low, his head tilted downwards. He couldn’t risk Harry recognizing him in any way. Patiently, he explained: “It’s too dangerous. If our blood isn’t compatible you could die.” Harry’s eyes narrowed, he clenched his teeth. “I’m already dying. Your blood can’t make me die _more_ ”

The violet shadows under his eyes were only supporting the argument. Peter forced himself to stay seated, stay diplomatic. “But it could do something worse.” From there, he could tell Harry wasn’t following any more. The blue-eyed boy bit down on his lip, ran his hands over his face. “Okay” he surrendered, “How much do you want? Name it, you want a boat, you want a plane, you want money?” “I don’t want your money.” Peter replied calmly, but it only upset Harry more. “Come on, _everybody_ wants my money!” He yelled. Both of them were standing now. More words were thrown across the room, whipping accusations to the man in the mask. “I thought you were supposed to save people!” _Yes, I thought I was supposed to do that, too,_ Peter thought. Words couldn’t describe how thankful he was to have his face covered otherwise his pained expression would have been exposed, let alone the fact that it was him, Peter, turning down his best friend over and over again. _The guilt, guilt, guilt._

“We just need more time” And he hated himself for feeding Harry with hopes for the future, but what else was there? Harry wouldn’t have it, though. He threw his scotch glass at Spider-Man’s head, who ducked, causing it to crash into the wall. “I don’t have time!” Harry bit down too hard on the inside of his lip, his nails dug into his palm. That moment, he wanted nothing more than to jump at Spider-Man and lock his hands around the so-called hero’s neck to see him struggle just for a second before he’d loose the fight as he knew in his state he wasn’t even a match for any person of normal strength.

Peter on the contrary felt like he was shrinking. Muttering “I’m sorry” he backed away, then flipped himself out of the open window only to press himself against the side of the building, out of Harry’s sight. Harry couldn’t believe his eyes. This was supposed to be the lifesaver the entire media made a giant fuss about? He was but a boy, a coward… He punched the wall, knocked over the table his scotch was standing on. And he raised his voice to make room for his anger outside, because we was just about to explode. “You’re a fraud, Spider-Man!” He shouted, just to feel the pain against his vocal chords. Of course he had no idea that he was still listening outside, and he paced up and down in the room, his emotions tripping over each other in his head.

“And what am I?” He asked himself, mostly because of the high alcohol concentration in his blood. A laugh escaped his mouth, first quietly and then louder. “I’m a dead man walking. Why bother. Not even the amazing Spider-Man could care enough to give me another shot at life. Because I don’t deserve it.” Silently and all to himself, he laughed again. Then, he straightened his back, looking at his reflection in the shattered mirror. He was but a shadow of the boy he’d once been. Why wait until I am nothing but dust? Harry wondered, then yelled at himself: “Why wait? Why suffer?” The windowsill looked inviting, and in his he could perfectly picture a green, blinking EXIT sign hanging over it. Still laughing, he climbed. He reached the open window and when the wind caressed his face, he felt something like freedom or control for the first time again in a long while. It blew his greasy hair away from his forehead and the smile off his lips.

There was more wind and freedom and control up here than he would have imagined. So he seized it, thinking that it was with this feeling that he wanted to leave. Not in a pathetic way, like his father. Harry inhaled, his heart beating what he imagined to be for the last few times. “This is on you, Spider-Man.” He shouted and pushed himself off. As soon as the air had taken all of him, all control was gone. Panic welled up inside him, and he thought _maybe_ -

A web caught his arm, slowing his fall. He got to look at the asphalt closely before he softly landed on it, on his knees. Looking up, he yelled. He yelled unfriendly and honest words, he yelled animalistic sounds. Maybe being alive now hurt more than being dead would have.

Swiftly, Spider-Man landed next to him on the sidewalk. “You!” Harry spat, pointing his finger, finding he’d run out of insults. “You can thank me later.” Spider-Man muttered apologetically, the guilt in his voice now obvious even to someone as hammered as Harry. “I won’t thank you ever! I hate you! How can you… how… **You can’t let me live, but you can’t let me die either!** What is wrong with you?” Desperately, he looked up at the white eyes that were framed by red fabric. He would’ve loved to rip the mask off and see the eyes of the monster underneath, but he was too weak to even get up.

“Death isn’t what you want, Harry.” _Before, he’d always said Mr Osborn._ “Oh? And how do you…? You know nothing! You’re a pretense, a coward, so full of shit…” Harry spat into Spider-Man’s face. There was no change in his posture, and there were no mimics to read, and still Harry felt the disgusting feeling of satisfaction creeping up inside him. He gave New York’s favourite hero a crooked smile. “You’re such a disappointment.” But Spider-Man turned his back and fled, like he had minutes ago in the apartment. Would he stop Harry if he threw himself in front of a car right now? How long would he be watching? How long until he would tire? In spite of his drunken mind, Harry managed to think back and realize Spider-Man had been right in one point. Death wasn’t what he wanted. It had seemed that way in the heat of the moment, but in reality he wanted to live so desperately that the fact that he couldn’t appeared worth killing himself over.

He managed to sit. That was when: “Harry!” “Peter?” Peter had never looked more distressed. “Your friend Spider-Man… did he tell you what happened?” Harry couldn’t help the hateful, disappointed smile taking place on his face. He was back on the ground of having no control. Peter shook his head. “Let me help you up. We’ll get you into the apartment.”

 

 

The apartment was a mess. Broken shards of glass and mirrors were all over the living room floor, so Peter heaved Harry up into his bedroom. Delirious, Harry waved his hand around as if he was giving his friend a tour. “So this is my room.” “Sh. I’ve been here before.” Peter let Harry sink into the soft covers that looked the same as the first time he’d set foot in the wide room where closets and the four-poster-bed took up most of the space. He assumed that Harry hadn’t slept in here during the last weeks, let alone slept much at all. The shadows underneath his crystal blue eyes were forged into his face, and he barely even remembered how he looked without them.

Because the miserable sight of his… friend made Peter’s stomach turn he kept talking in a low voice, his eyes still fixed to the door he came in through. “You’d asked me to get your phone so you could play that stupid song on loop, remember?” A dry laugh escaped Harry’s mouth, then he slowly murmured: “ _Look my eyes they’re just holograms._ ” After a second of confusion, it came back to Peter that these were the lyrics to said song. He turned around. “Harry, you have issues. You need to talk to someone.” At first he didn’t think Harry heard him. He kept lying on his back, hands at his sides, eyes staring blindly at the ceiling. Then he sat up abruptly, flinching back at his own movement. Under his breath, he swore and muttered “I think I cracked a rib”, then he looked at Peter: “Fine. Let’s talk.”

“Harry…” “Are you saying this because I tried to kill myself? Grow up. Being suicidal isn’t the issue here, Peter. What should really go to your head is so-called heroes being indifferent and ignorant, if you have connections to that newspaper why don’t you get them to print an article on that?” Nausea rushed over Harry in a wave and he put his face into his palms. Hesitantly, Peter put a hand on his back. Harry looked up. “You know what? Don’t. It’s okay. I’m used to being let down by now, freaking Spider-Man, my dad, the companies, _you_.”

“That’s not fair. You’re not thinking straight.”

Harry waited until Peter was properly looking at him before he answered: “Of course not. That’s because I’m dying. But your friend Spider-Man couldn’t even allow me the satisfaction of letting that happen by my own terms. I bet the two of you get together and have a real good laugh, don’t you? _Stupid Harry-_ ”

“Have you ever considered…“ Peter interrupted, then stopped himself to calm his voice, “Have you ever considered that _he cares_? That _I_ care?” Right away, Harry snorted. Then he looked at Peter, and snorted again. “Oh my. You actually _believe_ this. You are _actually_ convinced that you, Spider-Man, Gwen, you’re all good people.” “I don’t understand what Gwen has to do with this” Peter interjected, but Harry just went on: “In your head, you’re the good guys while you so openly go over my head. I can’t believe it.” Harry laughed and stared at Peter, Peter held his stare, wondering how the other boy could not see the disappointment in his eyes, or the honesty. All of it. It wasn’t like he was trying to hide anything right now.

“Nothing to say, have you?” Harry sneered. “I have, if only you’d listen.” “Fine, try me.” So Harry sat up straight, still slightly nauseous, and folded his arms in an attentive gesture. Peter cleared his throat. “Your life isn’t over yet, and neither should it be. Whether you want to accept that or not, you are not alone in this world, you never have been. Don’t throw that away, don’t let Spider-Man ruin that for you, you should rather make something of the time you have left because you will die, I know that more than anyone, I lost people! My uncle died in my arms and… and the point is he wouldn’t have pitied himself if he’d known he was going to be shot that night, he would have grabbed all opportunities to fully live before that by the collar and…”

He was out of words. Apart from that, he hadn’t meant to talk about Uncle Ben or antagonize Spider-Man but all of it seemed to be having an effect on Harry. The hostile touch had disappeared from his glare.

“Do you… do you get what I mean?” Peter asked cautiously. Harry didn’t answer, not even with a nod, but instead he leaned in. Against all his reflexes to block the advance or pull back, Peter allowed it. And when Harry’s chapped lips met his he kissed him back vigorously as if he was trying to prove his point. Harry let his hands run through Peter’s hair, across his neck, to his collar, the way he’d been wanting to since the night Peter first listened to his favorite song. He remembered the glass shards in his hands, the glass shards on the floor, the glass shards from the window.

“Is this what you meant?” Harry asked in a husky voice, and Peter mumbled something incomprehensible and kissed him again. Both of them knew that he was not really thinking right now. But Harry couldn’t have cared less. His fingertips sensed the muscles underneath Peter’s shirt and he allowed himself to be pushed back. None of the boys he’d kissed before had been as tense as Peter was now, or as _in_ tense. Between long kisses, he fumbled with the hem of his shirt, but Peter pushed his hands back for the sole reason that he was wearing the Spider-Man suit underneath.

Still, he pulled away to ask: “Are you sober?” “A little.” When Peter didn’t resume the kissing, he sighed. “I’m more sober than I have been in the past month, is that enough?”

All of a sudden, Peter seemed to realize what he was doing here. “Harry…” “I know. Leave. It’s okay.” “No, I…” “It’s fine, you have something to do. I’m okay now. I promise.” Peter ran his hands through his hair, smoothed down his shirt. “I’m sorry.”

Harry replied “You have nothing to apologize for” though in his head he was filing a list of all the things Peter had done, some of them in the past three minutes, that would require an apology given this situation. Getting up, getting his jacket, going to the door, those were all on the list. “Is this going to happen again?” Harry called when Peter was about to step out of his room, and the other guy stopped.

“I don’t know, Harry.” Then he was gone, and Harry thought that the words _I_ , _don’t_ and _know_ summed up their entire relationship pretty well. When he didn’t hear the door downstairs open and then snap shut, he hoped for a second that maybe Peter would come back up, but those hopes dissipated soon enough, and he didn’t bother wondering how Peter left the apartment if not through the door. For a while he just stayed in bed while it still smelled like him, then he moved downstairs to the liquor cabinet to find it almost empty between shards of glass he had caused. Those described their relationship well enough, too.

 

* * *

 

 

The next time they met, Harry was dead. The serum he injected himself with had warped his mind in such a way that everything that made the original Harry, Peter’s friend, had completely been etched away.

The next time they met, Gwen was killed. And Peter was left with only himself to stick the blame on, the blame for being too late, the blame for not being the kind of friend Harry would have needed and the blame for not being strong enough to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

There was a funeral for Gwen. A lot of people came, her speech from the High School Graduation ceremony was read and enough tears were shed to water the flowers on her grave for years to come.

There was a funeral for Harry, too. Felicia was the only one there to look at the expensive tomb equipment she had organised according to Harry’s will. Another person stood in the shadow, unnoticed, and when she was gone, he stayed playing a sad song to the coffin six feet underground.

 _Look my eyes are just holograms / Look your love has drawn red from my hands / From my hands you know you’ll never be / More than twist in my sobriety / More than twist in my sobriety_.

 


End file.
